


locked inside

by clovenhooves



Series: exploits [5]
Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Blood, First-Aid, Kinda, Medical Procedures, Multi, anqueer does some impromptu medical examination, but mostly it's ancom dissociating, could be seen as dubcon/revoked consent later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clovenhooves/pseuds/clovenhooves
Summary: Ancom had to admit, he was a lot less lonely when Nazi was around these days, too. Those moments when he’d sit in Nazi’s car and let the taller man drive him to god knows where were filled with a strange buzz in the atmosphere, a tension that - surely not only to Ancom - was more than purely sexual. And in the moments after they’d both finished, breathing heavily, staring at each other, brains floating in a pleasant cloud of endorphins and dopamine, Ancom could - for a moment, just the tiniest of moments - imagine if there were something more.But surely he wouldn’t want that. Nazi would make an even more controlling boyfriend than Commie, not to mention how the man himself was in the first place; the literal embodiment of fascism couldn’t be a good partner. Right?So why did Ancom feel emptier than ever before?Why does he imagine holding Nazi’s hand when his eyes drift shut?He still loves Commie. He still wants him.But he wants Nazi, too.---Ancom seeks help from a friend. Meanwhile, Nazi and Commie have a minor disagreement on what should be done.
Relationships: Anarchist Polycule, Ancom/Anfash, Ancom/Anqueer, Ancom/Commie, Ancom/Nazi, leftist unity - Relationship
Series: exploits [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947619
Comments: 20
Kudos: 82





	locked inside

Nazi didn’t even give him the courtesy of driving them home together. He dropped Ancom off about two or three blocks back, telling him to walk the rest of the way home. 

_ “I don’t want us being seen together.”  _

And so Ancom had to walk home, alone, in the cold autumn dark. It wasn’t being alone that scared Ancom - he was more than capable of taking care of himself, and while he didn’t have any of his usual weapons on him, he could still run faster than most to get away. His painted nails were filed into little points, tiny kitten-claws that could still inflict some damage if anyone wanted to fuck with him. 

Nothing eventful happened on the walk home. No mysterious attacker jumped him. He almost wished someone did. He almost wished someone left his beaten and battered body to rot in the street. That’s how he felt, anyway - unwanted, discarded. Disposable. Ancom held himself tightly against the sheer wind, bundling up his hoodie to shield himself. Tears sprang into his eyes. 

Ancom finally returns home to see Nazi’s car in the driveway. He looks at it for a moment, that anger and indignance building up inside of him- 

Impulsively, he stands back and smashes in one of the windows with a steel-toed boot before heading inside. Shards of glass stick into his legs, leaving dark red gashes dripping from his pale skin; he doesn’t pay them any mind, if he even notices them at all. Shaking from both the cold and the emotion surging through his little body, he stomps up the driveway and opens the door with enough force to send it swinging backwards into the wall - definitely enough to wake somebody, but he doesn’t care. 

And sure enough, he’s stopped on the way to his room by a very concerned Tankie, still clad in light red pajama pants, who steps out of his own bedroom in a daze. “Anarkiddie?” 

Ancom just quickens his pace. No, no, no, not now. Tankie was the last person he wanted to deal with right now- 

He feels a strong, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Ancom? What’s-” 

Ancom wrenches himself away from the authoritarian’s grip and speed-walks to his own door, throat clamming up in little half-sobs as he lets himself in. Before Commie can follow, the door is slammed shut with enough force to knock a picture right off its hook, sending it crashing to the ground. 

Commie, distressed, runs a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair. Part of him wants to just burst into Ancom’s door, hell, even snap the thing off its hinges if he has to, and take the smaller leftist in his arms and tell him everything is going to be okay. The other part wants to yell, to pound on the door with a clenched fist, to tell him that he warned him, whatever trouble Ancom has gotten himself into tonight he has probably  _ warned him  _ about it, and if Ancom would just  _ listen  _ to him none of this would ever happen, his poor kitty would never have to cry again- 

Slowly, another door to his right creeps open. Commie whips his head around to see Ancap poking his head out of his room, somehow already in a suit, hat, and sunglasses at nearly six in the morning. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, and Commie quickly closes the distance between them, forcing the door open with his obscene strength and standing in the doorway to the right-libertarian’s room. 

“I- I have no idea! I heard the door open and Ancom came inside in  _ tears!  _ I don’t know what would-” 

Ancap clenches his jaw and takes in a clearly uncomfortable breath that makes the communist taper off. “What? What is it?” 

Ancap purses his lips. “Can you step inside for a sec?” 

Commie nods, and walks past the doorway into the anarchist’s room. Ancap gingerly shuts the door behind him. It’s dark in here, Commie realizes, the only light coming from a lava lamp casting swirling yellow patterns on the wall and the artificial glow of Ancap’s six monitor PC setup, each abuzz with all sorts of incomprehensible charts and numbers. He squints as he looks around, seeing that the walls are decked out in black and gold flags, a framed picture of Ayn Rand, and some strange posters of...very young looking anime women. 

“Okay...I don’t know the  _ specifics  _ of what happened either, obviously,” Ancap starts, racking his brain for the details of his agreement with Nazi. How much could he reveal without violating their contract? “But I might know something...or I might not.” Ancap smiles, leaning an arm against the wall. 

It takes a moment for it to click with Commie. “Are you serious? You’re scum.” 

…

Commie retrieves his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. 

“Twenty dollars and I  _ might  _ know something, thirty-five and I’ll tell you everything I know within my current constraints, fifty and I’ll break the non-disclosure agreement.” Ancap smirks as he feels the Venmo notification buzz in his pocket. “A pleasure doing business. So…” 

And Ancap tells him. Everything. 

Too much. 

As Commie listens intently to the capitalist’s words, he gets more and more visibly angered. His shirtless torso flushes red as his hands ball up into fists by his sides. Ancap talks and talks about what’s been going on right under his nose over the past month, and Commie feels a mixture of rage, betrayal, and horrible, horrible  _ guilt  _ gnaw away at him. 

Oh, Anarkiddie. Poor Anarkiddie was driven...to this? To the fascist? All because of a stupid dispute they were already over and done with. And while knowing about their sexual behavior upset the older man already, knowing the way Nazi had  _ treated  _ his dear comrade, how he had  _ used  _ him without the naive anarchist saying anything to anybody, it nauseated him. 

When Ancap is done speaking, Commie takes in a deep, measured breath. Ancap watches him with cautious apprehension, taking a small step back. 

“Commie…? I know it’s a lot, but I figured you should know-”

“I am going to  _ snap  _ that zealot in  _ half _ ,” Commie barks, turning around to open the door. “I care little when I see him again, all I know is that when I  _ do  _ he is going to pay.” 

“Wait!” Ancap shouts as Commie closes the door between them. “Don’t you want some weapons before you go toe-to-toe with Nazi? I’ve got an excellent assortment of pistols, and any melee weapon your little red heart could dream of! Hammers, batons, brass knuckles, canes, bats…” 

Ancap’s voice, still listing off weapons, fades from Commie’s periphery as he walks back to his room. His teeth clench and grind together, a little vein popping out on his forehead as he drags himself back to his bed. Nazi was going to pay for what he did. One way or another. 

Ancom sits on his bed, legs pulled up to his chest. He hides his face in the sleeves of his hoodie, looking down and trying to hold back the tears. God, this really fucking sucks. Though he should’ve expected this. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

The sadness burns with an undertone of unrelenting shame. This was all so pointless. Why was he shedding tears over the Nazi when he knew the man would just as readily shoot him dead? Ancom falls backwards onto his unmade bed, slumping in defeat. He stretches his arms above his head as he looks up at the ceiling, sighing. What was  _ wrong  _ with him? He has Commie. He likes Commie - hell,  _ loves  _ Commie. Though their relationship wasn’t the most stable or consistent, it was there, and it was nice. When they were together, everything felt easy (up until they inevitably split again after some stupid argument, and equally as inevitably drifted back together. He and Commie were like two celestial bodies on parallel paths, always destined to crash into each other.) When they were apart, everything was so much shittier. 

Except...he had to admit, he was a lot less lonely when Nazi was around these days, too. Those moments when he’d sit in Nazi’s car and let the taller man drive him to god knows where were filled with a strange buzz in the atmosphere, a tension that - surely not only to Ancom - was more than purely sexual. And in the moments after they’d both finished, breathing heavily, staring at each other, brains floating in a pleasant cloud of endorphins and dopamine, Ancom could - for a moment, just the tiniest of moments - imagine if there were something  _ more _ . 

But surely he wouldn’t want that. Nazi would make an even more controlling boyfriend than Commie, not to mention how the man himself was in the first place; the literal embodiment of fascism couldn’t be a good partner. Right? 

So why did Ancom feel emptier than ever before? 

Why does he imagine holding Nazi’s hand when his eyes drift shut? 

He still loves Commie. He still wants him. 

But he wants Nazi, too. 

God, this is a lot to unpack. He needs some help. But who to go to? Definitely not Commie. Ancap? Ancap was...debatably okay at advice, but shit at relationships in general. He isn’t always present in the sincerity department, and though whatever was going on between him and Libertarian seemed to be going well, it definitely wasn’t due to any particular emotional intelligence on the capitalist’s part. Who else did he know? Progressive  _ might  _ be helpful, but god, if he knew who Ancom was having problems with, all of the libertarian left would surely disown him. 

He thinks and thinks for another moment, mentally going through the faces of all his friends, until a particular one sticks out in his mind. Perfect. 

Last time he’d heard from the other anarchists, one of them had mentioned relocating to a punk house in a not-so-great part of town, which was pretty on-brand for them. After finishing up a good, solid cry, Ancom slipped out the back door of the extremists’ house and headed towards the vague direction based on whatever he could remember, before getting rather lost and just texting Queer Anarchist to ask where the hell he was supposed to be going after a few hours of aimless wandering. This area had a lot of displaced homeless people, which was fine - he’d stolen one of Ancap’s spare stacks of $20 bills from the living room before heading out, and was having quite the time handing them out to whoever asked - but Ancom wasn’t naive, putting himself out here like this in a place he wasn’t familiar with was dangerous. Whether or not the people here recognized him as an ideology was the least of his concerns; rather it was getting to his destination with his human-ish body still mostly intact. 

So when he finally gets to the place - a dilapidated shed of a house that had more graffiti on the walls than actual paint, with an assortment of both complementary and conflicting anarchist symbols scrawled on the facade, he’s greeted by a jovial Anqueer before he even knocks on the door. 

“Ancom! Glad to see you made it,” chirps the taller anarchist, holding the rickety door open so that Ancom can duck inside. The air smells of sweat and weed, which despite himself brings a small smile to Ancom’s face. It was comforting; it reminded him of the days before the Centricide. 

The place is in a state of constant motion. Civilians clad in leather and spikes mill in and out of the doorways where proper doors probably once hung, some carrying instruments, others carrying precariously stacked plates of food. Loud music plays from just about every direction; whoever had their speakers on upstairs had them loud enough to shake the ceiling. There are a few torn-up couches in the middle of the room, some passed-out people laying on top of each other taking up most of the space followed by someone who upon a bit of squinting looked like Mutualist smoking a bong on the very edge of the furniture. A couple was in the middle of making out on a somewhat deflated bean bag chair. Ancom looks towards Anqueer with a bit of apprehension. 

“Yeeeeah, I’m gonna take you to the basement,” he says, taking Ancom by the hand and leading him to an unsettlingly rickety set of wooden stairs. As they descend Ancom can’t help but blush at the other anarchist’s contact. He’d had a little bit of a crush on Anqueer ever since he met him, but Anqueer had his polycule, and Ancom didn’t want to intrude. Besides, considering the kind of company he was keeping these days, he’s not even sure if he’d be accepted so easily. He grimaces. Was he losing his edge? He shouldn’t be so off-put by this place. 

They reach the bottom, and Ancom squints in the low light before Anqueer pulls the string on a lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. A chorus of annoyed groaning resounds from the ideologies sat in front of the TV. 

Anqueer rolls his eyes. “Give it a rest, we have a visitor. Look! It’s Anarcho-Communist!” The taller anarchist takes their interwoven hands and brings them up in a forced wave. Ancom suddenly feels very self-conscious, the eyes of the others suddenly fixating on him. It’s been a while, but he can immediately spot Anarcho-Pacifist dressed in all white with a soft grey blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his head laying in the lap of Anarcho-Monarchist who idly pets his hair. Anarcha-Feminist is pretty easy to identify as well, being the only woman in the group, and she eyes Anqueer with a bit of suspicion before turning her attention back to the TV. Anarcho-Primitivist, shirtless with his comically large dinosaur bone, is passed out in the corner, curled up with what Ancom  _ really  _ hopes are faux animal pelts. There’s someone in a grey hoodie that he can’t exactly remember the name of, but he looks kind of mean with a crowbar at his side and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, so Ancom probably isn’t going to approach him anyway. 

“Well, don’t be a stranger, make yourself comforta-” Anqueer starts, only for Ancom to give his hand a bit of a tug, standing up on his tip-toes to mutter in the other anarchist’s ear. 

“Hey, uh, I was actually hoping I could talk to you in...private?” 

Anqueer blinks. “Well, everything here is communal, so I can’t promise you _total_ privacy, but I can take you to another room at least.” 

“Sure.” 

They turn around to leave when Anpac’s soft voice drifts towards them. 

“Uh...guys? I don’t want to bother you or anything, but, I think Ancom is bleeding.” 

“What?” Anqueer asks, and Ancom - who had replaced his skirt from earlier that morning with a pair of pants - looks down to see that there is definitely blood staining through the fabric of his jeans. “Oh fuck! Oh no no _no_ , we’re not going _anywhere_ until I get you patched up.” 

“Anqueer, it’s fine-” Ancom starts, only to feel himself getting yanked into the other room and onto the floor. It’s a small, dark place, mostly concrete, with plastic shelves lining the walls. A faded pride flag hangs on the opposite site from where Ancom sits. 

Ancom watches, wincing a bit as he prods at the darkening spot on his pants, as Anqueer reaches up to the top of the shelf and grabs what looks like a first-aid kit. At first Ancom isn’t sure what the wound could’ve come from and feels a twinge of confused fear until he remembers earlier that morning...the shatter of glass as he kicked in Nazi’s windows. Ah. Well, this would lead into what he came here to talk to Anqueer about perfectly. 

Anqueer spins around on a heel and crouches to meet Ancom. He sets the first-aid kit down next to him and opens it with one hand while the other moves towards Ancom’s leg. “Is it okay if I touch you?” 

Ancom nods, and watches as Anqueer tries to roll up Ancom’s pants in order to access the wound to little avail. Ancom liked to wear skinny jeans, and the fabric simply clung too tight to his skin for the other anarchist to roll up his pants comfortably. 

Anqueer grimaces. “Hey, uh, I think you’re gonna have to take your pants off if I’m gonna try and patch you up. That cool with you?” He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “Shit. Pronouns? Just making sure.” 

“Still qui/quem,” Ancom mutters, hands moving to undo the button of his pants. He was really, really trying not to feel awkward. Anqueer was his friend. It’d been a bit since they’d talked properly, but before joining Team Extreme they’d hung out quite a bit with the other anarchists. And...yeah, Anqueer was pretty cute, especially leaning all close to him like this, a look of concern evident in his magenta eyes, muscular arms popping out of his thin tank top. The thought of what it would feel like to kiss those pierced lips had definitely come into his mind more than once and - fuck, what was he thinking? He was here to ask about what he should do with Nazi, and here he was thinking about  _ that _ . 

Nazi’s words echo in his head.  _ I always knew you anarchists were a bunch of sluts.  _ It was hot at the time, but now it just makes him burn with shame. He tries to pull his pants over his boots before giving up and kicking those off, too, and now he sits in front of the other anarchist in a pair of green and white plaid boxers, some stripey socks, and his hoodie. 

Anqueer leans a little closer to assess the wound and, yeah, it looks pretty bad. There was already a good amount of dry, crusted blood stuck to his skin, as well as some new rivulets of deep red that had been opened up from Ancom walking around town, the tiny bits of glass still stuck in him rubbing up against the fabric of his pants and forcing open his skin. Anqueer starts by taking some hand sanitizer and cleaning off his own hands, which, Ancom had to admit, was a bit reassuring - the state of this house left much to be desired in the realm of general cleanliness. Anqueer gingerly reaches over and picks the larger bits of glass out of Ancom’s skin and sets them aside, then gets a pair of tweezers from the box and tries to pick out the smaller ones. Anqueer didn’t have particularly steady or gentle hands, and so mostly this results in the other anarchist digging the tips of the instrument into the wounds and taking out little chunks that look like mostly flesh and blood rather than actual debris. 

Ancom holds back a whimper when Anqueer takes the little bottle of hydrogen peroxide out of the kit and drizzles it over the gashes. It fizzes over the open skin like a grotesque baking soda volcano, and just as the sting starts to fade Anqueer takes a rag and wipes away the leftover blood and peroxide, sending a new wave of pain shooting through the smaller anarchist. Finally, Anqueer takes some colorful Band-Aids from the box and plasters them generously over the now clean wounds. A mixture of green and pink plasters now cover his leg, Ancom notices with a quirked eyebrow. 

Anqueer inches closer to Ancom, smiling. “There we go. All fixed up. So what was it you wanted to talk about?” 

“Well…” Ancom starts, feeling his cheeks heating up again. Anqueer always had a very loud, confident manner about himself - which made sense, considering what he was. It took a good few decades for Ancom to build up that sort of confidence about his own gender and sexuality, while Anqueer was born with it,  _ composed  _ of it. It made up his very being. It was a little intimidating, sometimes. “Um, well, I have this...person that I’m seeing.” 

“Person?” 

“Guy. A guy I’m seeing.” 

Anqueer laughs. “Now I’m interested again.” 

“I mean- I wouldn’t say I’m  _ seeing  _ him, it’s...well, it’s pretty blatantly a friends-with-benefits situation? We’ve hooked up a lot. But I don’t think I could even really call him a  _ friend _ , I mean, he’s made it pretty obvious he hates my guts. Or...I thought he did? But yeah. It’s weird. And at first when shit started I thought we were on the same page with things? Like, we’d meet up, we’d have sex, we’d go home. No strings attached.” 

“You still with Commie?” Anqueer interjects, and Ancom nods. 

“Yeah. I mean- not at first, when I first started seeing this guy we were split up again. But, you know how it goes, we got back together a couple of weeks ago. And Na-  _ this guy  _ has been acting...off, ever since. Like, pissy. He’s not the happiest person to begin with, but now he just seems, I don’t know, like he holds it against me? And then Commie found out I was seeing him and now  _ he’s  _ acting weird, too, and...I just don’t know what to do. It just sucks.” 

“I thought Commie was cool with you being polyam?” 

“He tries to be...or, I guess he pretends to be. He’s still sort of traditional, you know? And...well, to make things even more complicated I think I’ve started to catch feelings for the guy I’m seeing on the side.” Ancom hides his face in his hands. Just saying it was humiliating. 

“Oh, honey, no…” Anqueer coos in a faux-pout, and Ancom feels the other anarchist move one of his hands away from his face. “Yeah, this makes total sense now. He still sees you as a fuckbuddy but you want something more, Commie is  _ way  _ too possessive as always, and you’re caught in the middle of it all. Oh, poor baby.” 

“I know, it’s so dumb, you think an ideology my age would know how to  _ avoid  _ this shit.” Ancom looks away, suddenly feeling choked up as the memory of being abandoned on the sidewalk earlier that day flashes back into his mind. 

“No, it’s not that,” Anqueer says, voice soft. He takes Ancom’s face in his hands, frowning. “It doesn’t matter how old you are. That’s still shitty, and I’m sorry that’s happening to you.” He seems to think for a moment, then asks, tilting his head to one side, “Wait, is this guy like...a person? Like, a civilian? Or another ideology? Because if it’s just a person, y’know, you can just tell Commie he’s going to get old and die anyway.” A smile reaches the other anarchist’s lips. It’s clearly a joke, and yet the question makes something in Ancom’s stomach drop. 

“Uh. Another ideology. But I don’t wanna say who.” His heart is pounding. Oh, fuck, he shouldn’t have answered that honestly. He should’ve just lied - why didn’t he lie? If Anqueer keeps asking questions, it’s going to end with a baseball bat in Ancom’s head. He didn’t even bring his own with him today, he forgot - fuck, he was a mess. 

“Oooo, I smell drama.” Anqueer smiles wide and cat-like, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Spill! Who is it? Oh, I bet it’s an auth-right.”

Ancom bites his lip. He feels like he’s about to scream. 

Anqueer bursts into incredulous laughter. “Oh my god! It totally is. Oh my god. Conservative? Pan-Africanism?” He hums to himself. “Li’l Nazbol? Oh god, you and  _ Li’l Nazbol  _ would be fucking hilarious.”

Shit shit shit shit shit if he keeps listing off names he’s eventually going to guess...oh, fuck that. 

Ancom grabs the front of Anqueer’s tank top and pulls him forward, closing the distance between them as Ancom’s lips smash against the other anarchist’s. Anqueer’s eyes pop open for a moment before fluttering shut, letting himself melt into the kiss. Ancom’s tongue laps out hungrily; Anqueer tastes like cigarettes and sweat but it doesn’t even matter right now, all that matters is getting the other anarchist to shut up. Dear lord, this was a horrible idea. He should’ve just talked to Progressive (though making the trek all the way to his cabin in the middle of fuck-all nowhere would’ve taken at least a day, and that was  _ with  _ using the bus). Though it  _ was  _ nice to kiss Anqueer. And it was nice to feel Anqueer’s hands on his shoulders, the other anarchist gently pushing him to the ground. The concrete floor was hard and uncomfortable against the back of Ancom’s head, but that was the least of his concerns right now. 

Most anarchists used sex as a coping mechanism, anyway. That was something they had in common with the authoritarian right, albeit with a hell of a lot less repression. 

Ancom feels Anqueer’s hand move between his legs. Lips on his own, lips on his neck. A zipper coming undone. Ancom lets his eyes flutter shut and gives into the pleasure. 

When Nazi wakes up properly again, it’s already a good way past noon. He barely registers this fact, rolling out of bed with an awful heaviness in his limbs. It was already set to be a bad day, no use in trying to salvage it. Ancom was already long gone - not like he knew that, standing up to stretch out his back before taking a quick glance at himself in the mirror. He’d fallen right into bed still dressed in his uniform. He couldn’t even force himself to feel any sense of pride in wearing it, now. Maybe he just needs a shower - on second thought, the idea of taking his clothes off to see whatever marks were left on him from last night was particularly sickening. Instead he settles for changing into something simpler - some civilian clothes made up of a gaudy Hawaiian shirt from the back of his closet and a pair of khakis. Maybe he’d go into town today, get his mind off shit. All he knows is that staying in this house is suffocating him. 

He opens the door and briefly sees what only registers as a red blur race towards him before he’s suddenly knocked against the wall, all the air forced out of his lungs with a hard fist to the stomach. 

He blinks, dumbfounded, and looks up to see the towering figure of Commie pinning him down like a trapped rabbit, squirming in the leftist’s grasp. 

“What the hell?!” Nazi sputters, bringing a hand up to push the other man back. There’s the sound of shrill, nasally laughter from the other side of the room, and he hears what sounds like Ancap’s annoying voice crack some sort of joke before Commie speaks up.

“You little bitch. You sniveling fucking moron. What did you do to Ancom?” His voice is low, his slurred accent, heavier than usual, rendering some of his words completely incomprehensible. 

Nazi shakes his head. “What the fuck are you talking abo-” Halfway through his sentence Commie punches him again, doubling the fascist over. He hears the larger man take a step back as Nazi regains his balance, looking up only to see Commie winding up for another hit- 

“Wait!  _ Wait! _ ” Nazi balks, raising up his hands. He didn’t even have his damn pistol on him, what was going on with him? He must look absurd in this stupid blue shirt with its palm fronds and flower petals paired up against the communist in his long coat and heavy boots. “Before you beat the shit out of me, can you at least tell me  _ why _ ?” He thinks for a second, then adds, “I mean, specifically  _ now _ . I’m sure you have a lot of reasons.” He holds back a disgusted expression upon catching a whiff of alcohol on the communist's breath.   


Commie grits his teeth and lets out a huff of air that sounds more like a growl than anything else, but reluctantly lowers his fist. “You and Ancom. I’m very aware of what has been going on between you two.  _ Uncomfortably  _ aware.” He sucks in a deep breath and shuts his eyes, seeming to forcibly remove some of the tension from his shoulders before he continues. “I know Ancom is not faithful to me, I accepted that long ago. And while I care little for who he sleeps with...even if I cannot for the life of me comprehend why  _ you  _ would be added to the list of his numerous sexual partners...what I  _ do  _ care about is making sure he is treated correctly. He came home crying this morning, Nazi. He would not even speak to me. Why?” 

“Fuck! Ah-Anqueer…” 

Ancom’s back arches as the other anarchist slips a second finger into the leftist’s tight insides, stretching him. Anqueer’s other hand is wrapped delicately around Ancom’s cock, his thumb stroking the underside gently. Usually Ancom doesn’t like anyone touching him there, but things were just... _ different  _ with an ideology like Queer Anarchism. He knew he didn’t have to  _ explain  _ himself, his gender, how his dysphoria manifested, because the other anarchist just understood. It was nice to know that. And besides, he was  _ way  _ too emotionally fucked up to tell Anqueer to stop. 

And Anqueer was so fucking  _ sweet _ , his breath hot against Ancom’s ear as he muttered quiet words of affirmation into the smaller anarchist’s ear. “You’re so pretty, Ancom. Fuck. You’re so fucking beautiful.” Anqueer peppers little kisses along Ancom’s jaw as he crooks his fingers just the right way, his fingertips brushing the edge of the communist’s prostate. Ancom squeals, lifting his hips to give Anqueer better access. 

“How am I supposed to fucking know? The guy’s an emotional basket case, he’s always either crying or screaming.” Nazi crosses his arms, deftly sidestepping around the communist so that they were now both facing away from the wall. Nazi didn’t like feeling cornered. It’s not like Ancap was going to back him up anytime soon, but at least if Commie wanted to start beating on him again he could just make a run for it. 

“Oh, do not play  _ dumb  _ with me, Nazi,” Commie sneers, narrowing his eyes. “You are the last person who was with Ancom this morning.” 

“...You can’t prove that,” Nazi says, looking away from the other authoritarian’s piercing gaze. 

“Ancap showed me security camera footage from this morning. You were seen getting into car together.” Commie’s voice is heavy with something - not quite anger, but adjacent to it. Betrayal? Jealousy? 

Nazi balls up his hands into fists. Ancap’s laughter drifts towards him again, and Nazi glances over to see the capitalist sprawled out on the living room couch, fanning himself with $100 bills. God damn greedy Jew. 

“Just stop lying, Nazi,” Commie says, voice quieting. “Please. I just want to know what happened. I want to make things right with Ancom. He’s been so different lately.” The taller man’s shoulders slump as he looks away from the fascist, his hat sliding over his eyes as he continues. “I feel like I’m losing him.” 

The small concrete room is filled with Ancom’s soft moaning. Anqueer moves slowly in and out of the smaller anarchist with a knowledgeable precision, each thrust hitting Ancom’s most sensitive areas every time. Ancom covers his face with the sleeves of his hoodie, embarrassed at himself for being in this situation. He really was a slut, wasn’t he? He couldn’t talk to a guy for five minutes without getting in his pants. Then again, it was almost guaranteed that Anqueer had indulged in far more sexual experiences than even Ancom himself has had in his time walking the earth. Anqueer didn’t feel any shame for it - and hell, usually Ancom didn’t either! But it was as though the damn fascist had put a worm of doubt in his brain that had slowly been eating its way through the leftist’s psyche, fueled by Ancom’s already quite prevalent self-hatred. He couldn’t shake Nazi’s cruel words, couldn’t stop them from circling through his head, the cloud of lust and arousal doing little to stifle his runaway mind. 

What  _ does  _ snap Ancom out of his own head is the sound of footsteps approaching the room. 

“Well that’s too fucking bad, Commie,” Nazi spits, walking past the communist. “Your little fag boyfriend is fucked in the head, that’s all I can say about it.” That was the wrong thing to say in front of the very pissed-off authoritarian, Nazi knows it, but honestly he just wants to get away from all these crazy leftists and drive his car out somewhere far, far away from them. As he starts for the door he feels Commie’s iron grip on his shoulder, holding him in place before he’s shoved forward into the opposite wall. 

_ “You don’t say that about him!” _ Commie shouts, and Nazi turns around, unamused. All this drama, and for what? For some quick lays? Why did he even bother with Ancom? 

“He has  _ problems _ , Commie. Why else would he be fucking someone like me? Unless he really is nothing but a cheap whore-” 

Nazi’s head snaps backwards as Commie lands a punch square on his jaw. 

“I will snap your goddamn neck, you fascist scum! Keep talking and I am going to break your spine over my knee like a tree branch.” 

Nazi stumbles back, rubbing at his bruising face. He’s so fucking sick of this. 

A memory from last night flashes to the forefront. He opens his mouth and says something he knows will break the communist - or at least his deluded vision of his  _ dear Anarkiddie _ . 

Voices from outside. 

_ “Hey, uh, I don’t think you should go in there…”  _ Anpac. 

_ “Oh god, who let this guy back in?”  _ Anmon. 

_ “He isn’t even an anarchist, he’s just racist.”  _ Anfem. 

Ancom barely has time to ponder who they could be talking about before he gets his answer. Behind the outline of Anqueer’s body on top of his own stands a man in a gaudy teal jacket. The iron cross sewn onto his hat catches the dim light of the storage room as his blue-green eyes pop open at what he sees before him. Ancom pales, roughly shaking Anqueer’s shoulder to get his attention. 

“What? What’s-” Anqueer starts, only to be cut off by the shrill, eerie sound of Anfash laughing, laughing, laughing, the thin ideology still standing in the doorway, doubling over in obnoxious giggles. The skull bandana stands out against his pale skin. Ancom feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“Ohhh, are you guys fucking in here? Can I have in?” he says, and, fuck, he’s already undoing his pants. Was Anfash still part of Anqueer’s polycule? The other anarchist has a look of disdain in his eyes as he turns around, as though he’s about to tell the fascist to fuck off and leave them alone. 

He should let him. 

He should shut up. 

Should. Should. 

Ancom’s shaking hand taps again on Anqueer’s shoulder. 

“Don’t. I want him to join us.” 

“Ancom said he wanted to date me last night. He said he liked me  _ romantically _ . He wants me as his fucking  _ boyfriend _ .” Nazi lets the last word fall off his tongue as though he were spitting sludge into a bucket. Never mind the way saying it made his stomach flip - of course it did, just the thought was repulsive. Vile. Worse than fucking the anarchist was the idea of  _ dating  _ him. 

Commie stares. His hand, still raised in a fist red from the blow he’d just inflicted, loosens, then falls. “...What?” 

“I was just as confused and  _ disgusted  _ as you are, Commie,” Nazi hums, a small smile coming to his lips at the look of  _ total devastation  _ that falls over the communist’s eyes. “What were his exact words, again?... Something like,  _ I like you, it doesn’t make sense but I want to make it work _ -” 

“-You’re lying,” Commie interjects. “You fascists are a bunch of dirty fucking liars. I told you to stop lying, you filthy son of a bitch-” 

“Oh, I almost forgot! He even mentioned  _ you!”  _ Nazi knows he’s essentially writing his own suicide note by saying all of this. Even Ancap is invested at this point, body half turned around on the couch to listen in their direction. 

Anqueer had him flipped onto his hands and knees, his bandaged wounds uncomfortably rubbing against the hard floor as the two anarchists he’s sandwiched between thrust into him. Anqueer pounding into him from behind, rougher this time - even though Ancom can’t see his face, he knows he’s glaring daggers at the fascist in front, whose cock jams itself in and out of the communist’s shallow throat. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. 

“Nazi,  _ fucking stop it. _ ” 

“ _ Commie is going to be pissed at me _ ,” Nazi quotes, voice upturned in a crude imitation of the anarchist’s. “ _ But fuck him.” _

“Shut up, shut the fuck up!” 

Anfash’s hands dig into his hair. Ancom forces his eyes shut as the fascist fucks his face with an eager brutality that was unlike anything even Nazi did, his body shaking with the force of his gagging and occasional frantic gasps for air. He couldn’t pretend this was Nazi even if he tried. Anfash’s fingers were too long, and held onto Ancom’s hair with enough force to tear it right out of his scalp. Tears formed from a combination of choking on the cock in his mouth and sheer exhausted sadness well up in Ancom’s eyes, though this only seems to turn Anfash on more. Anqueer has stopped murmuring those sweet words into Ancom’s ear, instead fixated on outdoing the fascist in front of him. He feels the other anarchist’s hands dig harshly into the bones of his hips, the metal rings on his fingers bound to leave harsh imprints alongside his fingerprints. 

Despite it all, if he focused hard enough on the ragged grunts and moans coming from Anfash...well, maybe he  _ could  _ pretend. He had to. 

“You  _ are  _ losing him, Commie. You’re losing him to  _ me _ . And I didn’t even have to say or do anything! Ancom has his faggy fucking heart set on  _ me _ , I’m the one he thinks about, you’re the one being left behind, he’s  _ sick  _ of you, Commie, you’re obsolete-” 

_ “SHUT UP!”  _ Commie roars, fist flying towards Nazi - and making contact with the wall, instead. The drywall crumbles in a cloud of dust as Commie slowly reels his bloody fist back, whole upper body shaking with rage. Nazi’s eyes are open wide in fear, and for a moment he’s stuck glued to his spot, mouth gaping dumbly at what’s just happened, before Ancap rises up from the couch and yells something like  _ run, asshole!  _

After a while Ancom feels as though he is watching himself, his mind wholly uninvested in what was happening to his body. This was strange. Having sex while sober was always a scarily intimate experience, and when it came to these one-off hookups (because there was no way in hell he was going to fuck Anfash again) he much preferred to be absolutely wasted. 

He looks down at his body - a small pale piece of flesh being roughly used by the two anarchists. He can’t stop the flood of shame and regret. This was a fucking mistake. He shouldn’t be here. But there was nothing to be done, now. He just had to close his eyes and think of something else. 

Anything else. 

( _ Please don’t think about  _ him, he silently pleads with his own brain.  _ Not now. _ ) 

Nazi nearly trips over himself as he scrambles out of the living room, heartbeat going wild as he hears the furious  _ stompstompstompstomp  _ of Commie’s boots behind him as he swings open the front door and runs out onto the driveway. Slamming the door in the communist’s face briefly slows him down long enough for Nazi to fish the keys out of his pocket and unlock his car. He climbs into the driver’s seat so fast that he doesn’t even notice the broken glass still littering the driveway. Commie runs up to the car and almost manages to pry the passenger side door open - almost. Nazi is able to start the car and speed backwards away from the house fast enough to throw the communist to the ground, the other authoritarian becoming nothing but a red blur in his rear-view mirror as he pulls out into the street. The screech of his tires drowns out the infuriated Russian screaming fading behind him.  


Anqueer comes first, blunt nails digging into Ancom’s back as he spills wave after wave of warmth inside him. The somewhat uncomfortable sensation is doubled when Anfash reaches his own climax seconds later, hips crashing into Ancom’s face with enough force to leave bruises as he comes down his throat. 

Ancom feels the tears fall freely as he gags, cum dripping from his mouth and nose as his head hangs forward. With a shaking hand he jerks himself off, desperate to flood his senses with anything other than this hellish fullness. 

He imagines it’s Nazi’s hand. Nazi’s come dripping from his lips. Nazi slowly pulling out of his insides. 

He comes. Hard. 

  
  


Nazi doesn’t know where he is. He briefly considered going into town, mingling with his civilians, maybe meeting up with some of his followers to get his mind off shit. But as he continues following the straight and narrow country road, the sun only continuing to lower under the treeline and into the horizon, that idea is all but abandoned. He hates the way his hands quiver every time he moves to turn the steering wheel. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do now? He’s completely alone out here. It’s only going to get darker and darker, and he’s only going to get farther and farther away from the extremists’ house. _ As if returning there were a reasonable option, _ he thinks, scoffing. 

He tries to turn on the radio to calm his nerves and is treated to a myriad of shittily received stations, mostly in the vein of gospels, talk radio, or country, all heavily distorted by static. Frustrated, he shuts it off, opting to sit in silence. What he needed was a fucking drink. Why did he say all of that shit? What did he have to gain? Everything was hopelessly fucked, now. 

“So how  _ did  _ you get that glass in you, anyway?” 

Anqueer nuzzles his face into the crook of Ancom’s neck. Anpac had lent the smaller anarchist his blanket; its reassuring presence is welcome around his barely clothed body. _ At least anarchists know what the fuck aftercare is _ , Ancom muses, sipping from the cup of water Anfem had handed to him. 

He shrugs. “Uh, that guy I was telling you about earlier was being a complete asshole, so I kicked in his car window.” 

Anqueer lets out an amused little hum, ruffling his hands through Ancom’s hair (Ancom holds back a wince at this; Anfash’s roughness had left his scalp sore.) “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He takes a gentle hand and moves Ancom’s face towards his own. “Well, fuck that guy, right? He’s missing out. You’re always welcome here, you know.” 

Ancom swallows hard, grimacing at the way his sore throat tightens up. “...Yeah. Thanks, Anqueer.” 

He leans back into the other anarchist’s arms and finds his phone in the pocket of his sweatshirt. With a quick glance upward to make sure that Anqueer wasn’t looking at his screen, Ancom quickly opens his messenger app and types out something quick before shutting his phone off again, closing his eyes and forcing himself to relax. The muffled noises of the TV help lull his tired body back to sleep, the sounds of some Breadtuber prattling along about a Marxist analysis of some new video game acting as his lullaby as Anqueer gently rubs his shoulders. 

He wishes it could always feel this way. 

Nazi veers off the main road and lets the car stop just short of the metal barrier separating the road from the cliff’s edge. He steps out, stumbling a bit on half-asleep legs. The air outside is cold, a harsh breeze twisting around his bare arms. He really did look ridiculous out here. 

With his hands in his pockets he plods over to the small makeshift observatory area, leaning against the metal and letting his eyes skim over the placard placed against the fence.  _ Guevara Heights _ . He wrinkles his nose in disgust at the foreign name. 

Nazi slowly leans forward, looking down, down, down at the inky black below. It looked almost like a mirror image of the night sky, the overcast night obscuring all the stars. He sighs. It would’ve been nice to see some after the day he's had. 

He feels his phone buzz in his pocket. Takes it out, unthinking, looks at the message displayed in small black letters on his lockscreen. 

**i miss you.**

**Author's Note:**

> I feel kinda ehhhh about this one. Lemme know if it sucks 😔


End file.
